


Earthly Delights

by CalamityCain



Category: Jesus Christ Superstar - All Media Types
Genre: Baking, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Motorcycles, Reincarnation, Video Cameras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:15:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23824444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalamityCain/pseuds/CalamityCain
Summary: Jesus bakes, Judas bikes. Sex happens. The small joys that ensue when two classic enemies-to-lovers are reborn and reunited.
Relationships: Jesus Christ/Judas Iscariot
Comments: 7
Kudos: 31





	Earthly Delights

**Author's Note:**

> this is as close to harmless wholesome fluff as i've probably ever been. please leave me a note telling me if i did it right

There were perks to having a boyfriend with a massively popular YouTube baking channel. Such as the aroma of freshly baked goods wafting through the house on weekends. And not having to spend a fortune for the luxury of artisanal loaves.

The downside was that the man looked sexiest in the very moments he was to remain unmolested. Judas loved nothing more than to manhandle Jesus while he was dusted with flour, a smear of white attractively staining one cheek, dark eyes focused on his lump of dough before he was grabbed from behind or pulled flush against his lover, a kiss roughly stolen from his lips. It was customary for him to delight Judas with the pretence of resistance. A struggle that was unfailingly short-lived.

“You’ve just cost me an extra hour of editing,” Jesus grumbled.

Judas glanced at the camera lens and fed it a wicked grin. “Leave it in. Let them see.”

Jesus may have the power of touch, but Judas more than anyone knew just how to use the ability against him. A hand at the back of his neck, another hand squeezing softly the small of his back, could turn him as pliant as a raw sourdough. By the time they were halfway through a hot wet kiss, he was pushing his body eagerly into Judas’ hands. The hands were halfway down his pants and steadily kneading his ass before he remembered to reach for the camera remote.

Judas gripped his hand. “Don’t. I want to watch us, later.”

“But – ”

“Shush.” Judas turned him around and pressed his hips against the table’s edge. “You dream of being taken like this, don’t you? Me fucking you so hard while you work until you can barely stand?” Judas was pushing up his shirt now, exposing him to the lens that soaked it all up while he bit back a whine of useless denial. “Tell me, babe. Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to…to…” He closed his eyes, unable to say more, as Judas’ hands crept both further upward and downward.

Judas toyed with him like this until impatience crept in. He was as hard as he would ever be, and some things would not wait. Reaching out, he swiped a generous amount of the softening butter from a glass bowl and held up his slicked fingers. “Know what I should do with this, babe?”

“A waste of good butter,” Jesus whined.

“Not if it makes you happy.”

“Judas, don’t – Oh, God – don’t – don’t stop.”

“I don’t intend to.”

Jesus moaned and gripped the edge of the table as he urged the skilled fingers to bury themselves deeper. He looked straight into the passive stare of the camera, and shivered, and kept thrusting.

Some time later, the half-kneaded dough long abandoned, Jesus leaned contentedly against the wall of the garage where Judas had worked all May on his passion project: a leather-and-chrome monster of a machine with a modified engine, custom tyres and handlebars that stopped just short of obnoxious. He loved watching his boyfriend tinker with the beast about as much as the latter loved to watch him make pastries, even if it didn’t have the same effect on him as the mere act of separating egg whites apparently had on Judas.

“Come here.”

Jesus put down their shared can of beer and went to where Judas was standing proudly over the finished masterpiece. It made the average Harley Davidson look like a child’s tricycle.

Judas patted the newly upholstered leather seat. “Hop on.”

“ _You_ hop on. It’s your baby.”

“You’re my baby too. Humour me.”

Grinning, Jesus acquiesced. Judas wasted no time in sliding himself between his thighs and claiming his lips. “You’d look better on it naked, but this will do for now.”

“You’re insatiable,” Jesus murmured against his cheek. “You just had me on the dining table. And now I stink of motor oil as well as butter.”

Judas smiled as if Jesus had only given him new ideas. He unbuttoned the rumpled shirt, pulling it down to expose a shoulder. His hand left black streaks on the lightly tanned flesh. The man was pretty enough, but anointed with black grease, he looked absolutely divine. “I’ll clean you up nicely after this,” he promised with a gleam in his eyes. “But first I’m going to thoroughly ruin you.”

Jesus reached for him hungrily, set aflame by his words. They clung to each other and kissed as if drawing breath from each other’s lungs. Judas pulled away just long enough to remove Jesus’ shirt entirely so he could savour the expanse of naked skin against his own grease-stained t-shirt. He loved the way their bodies melded perfectly together: the other taut of limb but slightly fleshier than his own wiry sparseness, just enough for him to dig his fingers in and hold him tight while they made love.

“Want me inside you again?”

“Mmm. Inside my mouth.”

Judas traced the outline of his soft lower lip. “I’d like that too.”

Then it was his turn to spread his legs on the broad leather seat and let those generous lips that looked so good around his cock do their work. He admitted to having the very same unholy thoughts when he had first met the man: how the mouth that spoke so eloquently and passionately, framed by the dark wavy hair of a wandering saint, would look when pleasuring a man as ardent as himself.

It turned out that the saint looked very good indeed while on his knees. And not just in prayer. This discovery had been made – quite blasphemously – in the confession room of a chapel. Jesus had not been the cockslut he was now. The virginal young man had not been reticent for long. By the time the older man was done with him, he would rather drain the spend from a willing fount at the drop of a hat than drink from the communion goblet.

“Look at me,” said Judas, voice ragged with mounting arousal.

Jesus’ dark, lovely eyes – the eyes that could blaze with the fires of revolution, or plead with poetic mourning, or reach across the universe with their intensity – fixed upon his. Lustful, subservient. The gaze of someone who would lie down and die for love.

Except neither of them would be making that mistake this time.

Jesus clung to his thighs for leverage so he could take him in deeper, despite knowing it would make him gag. (Deep-throating was Judas’ trick, one he had never fully mastered.) His eyelids were fluttering, chest starting to visibly rise with breathlessness. Nonetheless, Judas found his hand crawling down to guide his lover’s movements – gently at first, then more and more forcefully as he lost control to the burgeoning ache pooling in his loins – heedless of the soft choking sounds from between his thighs until –

Lord God, that felt _good._ He very nearly fell off the bike, but Jesus’ grip on his legs steadied him, the fingers trembling a little as he drew breath properly for the first time since taking Judas into his throat. For a moment, only the sound of their panting filled the small garage.

Jesus clambered back to his feet and leaned in for another kiss. Tasting of his usual sweetness laced strongly with the smell of sex. “I need a shower,” he murmured.

Judas gave his backside a squeeze. “Lead the way.”

They decided, with the afternoon stretching before them, to indulge in a bath instead. Shortly after they were both enveloped in hot water and scented salts, Jesus began subtly stretching and arching in an indication that he would really like a back rub.

Judas could ignore the signs, of course. He had done that before in the wake of an argument that he had only half-heartedly let drop. Still holding on to traces of a grudge, he had blatantly overlooked the kittenish brushing against his arm, his neck, determined to let his boyfriend’s needs go unattended. It was terribly petty of him, he admitted. And it had worked. Jesus had sulked for two whole days.

_The little shit,_ he thought fondly.

He ran his hands down the supple arms, sliding the stubborn grease off as he kissed the toned shoulders that tasted faintly of lavender salt. The man slowly melted into a puddle as he rubbed circular motions around the bent neck, the firm flesh between the shoulder blades.

“Does that hit the spot?”

Jesus sounded desirous yet deeply content. “You know it does.”

Judas made sure to please him thoroughly this time, moving his practiced fingers downward, spending more time on the shapely ass than strictly necessary. “Did you ever…” he wandered off for a bit, lost partly in the pleasant cloud of scents rising from the water, and the thrill of the body he could never quite get enough of after all these millennia.

“Did I ever what?” came the hazy reply.

“Think that we’d end up like this.”

“Hmm. I couldn’t have predicted the specifics. Bath salts had not been invented yet.”

Judas grinned. “Neither had counselling for couples, which I’m glad as hell you never dragged me to.”

Jesus made an uncharacteristic snorting sound. “You don’t need counselling. You need to stop being a prick.”

“And you need to stop being a whiny little bi – ”

Jesus turned around and shoved him in the chest. Judas bared his teeth and pulled him closer. They twisted and turned in a series of clumsy splashes like two serpents making the seas churn, tangled in each other’s unspoken passions and frustrations spanning the eons they had waited to be reunited in these strangely fragile mortal shells. The brief, slippery wrestling match ended with Jesus straddling him, warm sweet breath raining heavily on his face.

“You win,” Judas whispered triumphantly.

They had fought a war for love, and died for love, and defied the same God that had doomed them by finding each other again. Along the way they had found the pleasures of good bread and bad-boy bikes and the wind on their knees, right here in the garden of delights. Heaven, as such sayings went, could wait.


End file.
